


Chopsticks

by RosiePaw



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-26
Updated: 2010-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosiePaw/pseuds/RosiePaw





	Chopsticks

It was completely unfair.

There sat Ronon, eating neatly, handling his not-quite-chopsticks with ease because, surprise!  Ghislainian not-quite-chopsticks turned out to be almost identical to Satedan not-quite-chopsticks.  No wonder the guy had trouble wrapping his head – and his hands – around the concept of forks when he first arrived on Atlantis.

There sat Teyla, eating not only neatly but _gracefully_, because was Teyla ever going to be anything _but_ graceful?  Being trained as a leader, negotiator and diplomat since childhood might also have something to do with it.

And there sat Rodney, on John’s left...  Okay, nothing explained Rodney.  Except just then Rodney caught John looking at him and – of course – explained himself.  “What?  One of my thesis advisors was Japanese.  He used to invite students over to his house for dinner.  It was chopsticks or starvation.”

Right.  Under those conditions, Rodney would have been highly motivated to learn to use chopsticks.  And he had those agile hands, capable of handling delicate circuits far more precisely than their size and breadth would suggest.  Large, broad, _warm_ hands that would know how to touch in just the right ways...

Okay, enough of _that_ train of thought.  Back to the problem at hand, which was that so far John had managed to dump food down his shirt, accidentally flick a chunk of vegetable across the table at a Ghislainian dignitary and come all too damn close to putting out one of his own eyes.  It was ridiculous.  He could handle choppers, jumpers, guns – almost anything that flew or fired.  But apparently he couldn’t handle chopsticks.

Fine.  He could grab some supper when they got back to Atlantis.  In the meantime, he’d take a page from Teyla’s book and be diplomatic.  He concentrated on looking interested in the conversation – something about livestock? – while occasionally poking his chopsticks into the food on his plate and then lifting them – empty – in the general direction of his mouth.  The Ghislainians smiled and nodded at him, accepting the polite social charade: “Yeah, I appreciate your hospitality, honest I do.  It’s not your fault I’m too clumsy to take advantage of it.”

John hadn’t accounted for the fact that Rodney McKay had never accepted a polite social charade in his life.

“Colonel, why are you playing with your food instead of eating it?”  McKay’s tone was probably intended to be a whisper, and it was at least partially successful.  John doubted than anyone more than ten feet away had heard.  “Do you think it might be poisoned?  Ohmigod, you do, it’s poisoned and you didn’t tell me and I’m going to die after experiencing horribly painful side effects and –“

“Shut up, McKay!  The food’s fine.”

“Then why aren’t you eating?  Don’t tell me you’re on a diet, you need to go on a diet like Ronon needs hair implants.  And why are you holding your chopsticks that way, anyone would think you’d never used them before – oh.  Oh, for the love of...  Here!”

The chunk of food appeared in front of John’s mouth so quickly that he instinctively jumped back, but Rodney was not to be deterred.

“You’re _not_ skipping supper and walking eight kilometres back to the jumper and flying us home and passing out from hunger at the controls –“

“McKay, I’m not the one who’s hypogly-“

“And crashing the jumper and _killing_ us all just because you don’t know how to use chopsticks!  Here!”

Defeated, John opened his mouth and let Rodney poke the chunk of food inside.  He felt like a very large and awkward baby bird.  The food was good, though – some type of shellfish, he thought.

Rodney’s chopsticks were back with another chunk of food, some sort of blue-green root thing.  Determined not to be poked at again, John grabbed the other man’s wrist and held it still while he leaned forward to pull the chunk off the chopsticks with his teeth and lips.  He already had a grip on it when it occurred to him what this would look like to anyone watching.  John froze.

“Come on, come on,” snapped Rodney, “I’ve got to feed myself as well as you!”

John glanced around cautiously.  No one was watching them except a Ghislainian matriarch – someone important, to judge from her embroidered robes and the jewels in her intricately knotted grey hair.  _Her_ gaze was distinctly indulgent.

“Come _on_, Sheppard!”

With a mental shrug, John took the root chunk, carefully looking anywhere _except_ at Rodney.  Maybe Rodney’s own love of food would take over now and he’d leave John alone.    

Or maybe not, because here came the chopsticks, now bearing something orange that turned out to have the texture of cauliflower and the taste of – avocado?  Which would have been kind of bland, except that Rodney had dunked the piece in some sort of peppery sauce.  John couldn’t resist an appreciative hum over the result.  This seemed to encourage Rodney.

More bits of shellfish, alternated with chunks of roots and pieces of various vegetables in different kinds of sauces.  Free of the stress of handling chopsticks on his own, John could _taste_ the food, which turned out to be pretty amazing.  Where was Rodney getting all this stuff?  John was pretty sure he was being fed things that didn’t appear on the plate in front of him.

In the end, it was the pepper sauce that did them in.  One of them was slightly off course and screwed up on the docking of Rodney’s chopsticks with John’s mouth.  No big deal, just a bit of pepper sauce smeared off to one side.  Blissed out on the food, John forgot about the existence of napkins and instead stuck his tongue out to lick away the smear.

Rodney made this _noise_.  Startled, John forgot that he’d decided not to look at Rodney.  He looked straight into those blue eyes – except right now, they were more black than blue.  Rodney’s lips were pink, wet-looking as if... as if he’d been licking them.  Over and over.  While he watched John eat.

John _couldn’t_ look away now, but he didn’t know what to do or say.  Neither, for once, did Rodney, so they sat there trapped until a feminine chuckle broke the spell.

“One of the things that makes it so fascinating to meet people from other places,” said the matriarch to Teyla, “is to see how much is different and yet how much is the same.  It is hoped that what we have in common will allow us to overcome the differences and establish a mutually beneficial relationship.”

She was still looking at John and Rodney.  Teyla was looking at John and Rodney.  _Ronon_ had pulled his attention away from his food and was looking at John and Rodney.  At least Ronon didn’t look fond and indulgent.  More like... unsurprised.

_Rodney_ looked wired.  He’d found words, all right – something about “when we get back to Atlantis” and “need to talk” and “not letting you run away, Sheppard.”

Hell.

John was _so_ busted.


End file.
